


From His Master's Table

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse, Animal Play, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Emasculation, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con References, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his rescue and return to the Iron Islands, Theon discovers that there is truly a fate worse than Boltons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From His Master's Table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sternflammenden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/gifts).



He watched carefully, skin chilled with the salty air coming off the sea and emaciated limbs trembling at his sides, as his uncle stalked a wide circle around him. Even when Euron passed behind, he could still feel his sharp gaze heavy, piercing his skin like heavy needles. Theon stood as still as he could, though the pain from trying to keep steady on bare, broken feet was agonizing. The last thing he wanted to do after being returned from the clutches of first a Bolton and then a Baratheon was to appear even weaker and more pathetic in front of his uncle. He knew his own failure, and bowing his head now would not spare him the torment of being reminded of it. So he drew in his pain as well as he could, stilling his body and seeking out the last meager scraps of pride he had left.

He'd been scrubbed clean and dressed before they set off for the Iron Islands, but he'd been told to wash the Northern filth from his flesh with salt and oil before being granted attendance with his uncle. There, in the presence of the Seastone Chair, he was told to strip out of his borrowed clothes and lay them at Euron's feet. The man's face was utterly impassive as he watched, silent. It was only after several long minutes of contemplation that he stepped down from the tiered dais, and Theon couldn't help the instinctive flinch that rippled through him, expecting to be struck or worse. Instead, Euron began his pacing, his stride methodical, each heavy footfall sounding off the high vaulted ceiling.

Theon didn't dare turn his head to watch, but he heard the footsteps edge closer to him, and felt his uncle's presence closing in on him from behind. He steeled himself as much as possible but still wasn't prepared for the slow slide of Euron's hand around his throat. He drew in an uncertain breath, nails sinking into his brittle skin, and tried not to recoil. Where would he go if he did? The only way to run was back, right into his uncle. Instead, he clenched his mangled fists and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the heat of shame scalding his cheeks. But Euron's grip tightened further and he stepped closer still until he was pressed against the jutting ridges of Theon's spine, his mouth hovering a few brief inches away from his ear.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," he breathed hotly, his grip inching ever tighter. "Tell me what you have ever done to deserve to live."

Theon shuddered, his breath caught in the back of his throat. He'd done nothing to deserve life and he knew it. He may have just as well been executed for all he deserved another chance at life, and there was nothing that made him think he deserved to return to the Iron Islands after his complete failure in Winterfell. It wasn't his blind determination that led him astray, but rather the fact that the cold North had purged all the salt from his veins and made him soft; little better than any other man. Had he known what it really meant to be Ironborn he would have forgotten the perceived insult to his pride and taken his ships pillaging as he was told; he might have even been able to help his sister take the throne that rightfully belonged to her. But it was a lordship he wanted, a castle and peasants to bend their knee to him, and he wanted it all without ever earning any of it.

Now his uncle wanted him to beg for his life and it wasn't pride that stopped him from doing it, but the knowledge that nothing he said would ever be enough.

Theon shook his head, Euron's nails digging deeper into his skin as he moved. "Nothing," he rasped.

Euron's grip loosened, but not out of mercy, only to drag his fingers heavily across Theon's throat. "That's right," he replied, "but you live nonetheless." His hand twist, fingers flexing as they drew wide, "You have no one but your sister to thank for your life now; were it up to me, I would have sent you back to that Bolton bastard and let you die there with him. But don't think that her pity makes her soft," he continued, hissing sharply against Theon's ear. "It's merely a child's dutiful love for their mother, that Alannys may not lose her last surviving son - which is more than you've ever done for your family."

He might have dropped his head forward at that, but the way Euron was holding onto his neck prevented him from moving, as though the man wanted him to stare forward at the throne he would never be allowed to touch.

"What name do you think she would call out if we had allowed you to die there?" Euron said, his words slipping out past grit teeth. "Would she call for Theon, or would she call for Reek?"

He trembled then, that his uncle knew the name Ramsay gifted him with, that he knew all the shame Theon endured there. How could he not? The torment was as visible on his skin as anything else - the missing digits, the teeth cracked from his jaw, the jagged scar sliding between his legs that left him barely able to call himself a man. There were so many more scars littering his flesh, too; barely an inch of skin that remained unmolested. Without the benefit of clothing to hide his disgrace, Euron could see every cruel scourge that had been inflicted on him.

It would be easy for him to repeat the litany that had kept him company so many nights, but some part of him was determined to leave Reek behind. Still, he shook his head again. "I've no right to call myself my father's son," he murmured.

"No," Euron agreed, "you don't. But I won't have another man's plaything in my company either. I told your sister I would let you live, but I never said what conditions you would live under, or for how long I would entertain your presence."

Theon could feel him wet his lips, his sharp profile lingering close to the side of Theon's head, each word brushing through thin white hair. He couldn't imagine anything worse than what Ramsay had done to him, but his uncle had brought cruelties from all over the world back to the Iron Islands with him. Theon could only imagine that the things Euron had inflicted on other prisoners would make even a flayed man shudder. That was the reputation that men brought back with them from the sea, and the word of a sailor meant far more to him than the word of even a septon. He swallowed harshly, not even trying to will the heat away from his cheeks anymore.

"Should you fail to make yourself useful," his fingers flexed again, but this time not to adjust his hold; instead he trailed one sharp nail harshly down Theon's sternum, raising a fine red line and beads of blood in its wake, "I will skin you myself and send you back to the bastard boy with ribbons. Do you understand?"

Theon nodded.

"Good," he dropped his hand away, only to fist his fingers sharply in the hair at the back of Theon's head. "Because I still think you'd make a better rug than you ever did a man."

Euron shoved him forward, and Theon barely had time to catch himself on his hands and knees so he didn't crack his face against the floor. His head had snapped forward under the force of his uncle's hand regardless, but at least he'd managed to save himself some degree of disgrace. There was no doubt that Euron had only just begun his punishment, and Theon stayed prone at his feet, having no command to rise or compose himself.

That, at least, seemed to please Euron a small amount. He stepped around Theon and made his way back up the dais, dropping down onto the throne with little ceremony, just as he had been before. "But perhaps," Euron said, stretching his arms out over the sides of the throne, fingers curling over one of the kraken's long limbs, "you'll make an even better dog than you might a rug." He sneered when Theon's gaze jolted up, the corner of his blue-tinged lips curling upward. "Oh, I know about that too," he taunted, "that the bastard made you no better than one of his bitches, fighting for scraps that even a servant would turn its nose up at." His glare slowly sharpened and he turned his hand over, curling two fingers and beckoning Theon forward. "Let's see what a well-behaved bitch you are, Dog."

He hung his head again, hesitating for only a moment before he crawled forward. His knees ached against the stone floor, but he forced back every wince as he slowly climbed the steps up to the throne. He stopped just short of the top level, his head bowed and his knees resting two steps lower than his hands, staring at Euron's boots. It was much easier to obscure the humiliation with his lank hair hanging in front of his face than it was to own up to the fact that this coursed through him in the worst possible way. Euron slid his foot over, pressing the toe of his boot under Theon's chin and tipping his head up. Obediently, Theon kept his eyes trained on the floor instead.

"Look at me," Euron muttered, jerking his foot upwards hard enough that it threw Theon's head back. Slowly his gaze rose, as unable to hide now as when he had been standing naked and exposed. "Remember that it is a privilege to be allowed to sit at my feet, Dog; abuse that privilege and you will find yourself in a far worse station than this. I will have you cleaning pots on my ship with your tongue if it pleases me." A faint smirk curled at his lips, "Now show me how grateful you are..."

He dropped his foot away and Theon lowered his head as quickly as he could, letting his hair curtain his face again. He didn't immediately know what Euron wanted him to do - if this had been Ramsay it would have been simple, but Euron was a much more complicated man, who seemed to enjoy watching him tremble and recoil. Instead of immediately pressing his face between his uncle's legs, as he might have for another, he lowered his head and pressed his warm cheek to the top of Euron's boot. He nuzzled softly at the buckle, then turned his head to lave his tongue across the toe.

A curious, amused hum came from above him. Apparently, Euron hadn't expected this, but his approval was clear. That spurred Theon forward, eager to continue to please even if it caused him a lifetime's worth of abasement. If this was all he had left to prove he was worth being kept alive, then he would do it to the utmost of his ability. He was thorough, trailing over the sole and up the straps and buckles until the leather shone. Only when he was absolutely certain that he had left no spot unattended did he moved to the other boot, showing it the same amount of attention as he had the first. He could taste the dirt and salt, the barest hint of something metallic, and stone between his tongue and the leather, but after subsisting on rat carcasses for months, he could imagine the taste of anything else was a blessing.

When he finished, Theon sat back on his heels, head lowered again until Euron reached forward and pet a hand briefly through his hair. The unspoken invitation drew him forward, and he nuzzled against the inside of his uncle's thigh gratefully. It wasn't entirely an act, even if this was more difficult than the physical torment he'd endured at Ramsay's hands - because the pain would stop eventually but the memory of this would persist - he _was_ grateful that he was still alive and home again, and Euron was the one who brought him there. He was committed to pooling whatever strength he had left into this, no matter the cost.

Euron rested his hands on the arms of the throne again, leaning back to give Theon room to edge inward and take the laces of his uncle's trousers between his lips to pull them loose. It took some maneuvering, but he eventually got them loosened enough that he could draw the fabric aside with his mouth. Euron made no attempt to help him, leaving Theon struggling to withdraw his cock from inside. But he managed to get his mouth around it, sucking it slowly between his lips and pressing down to the base for as long as he could stand to. Euron filled out quickly and in a few moments was pressing hard against the back of Theon's throat. He didn't hesitate at the pressure but instead sped his movements so he had no time to feel the instinctive clench of his throat against the intrusion. He'd become fairly skilled at this despite how bitterly he hated being forced to do it in the beginning and he knew his enthusiasm was part of what made it enjoyable now. Had he devoted so much determination to the sacking of Winterfell as he did to sucking his uncle's cock, he might not have been overthrown so easily.

But Euron wasn't content with just letting him bob his head sloppily, trying hard to bury his nose in the thick, dark curls at the base of Euron's cock. He reached down to thread his fingers through Theon's hair and gripped tightly. Holding Theon's head in place, low around him, he flexed his thighs and started thrusting even deeper into the young man's mouth. It wasn't long until Theon lost his pace, unable to find time to breathe much less control the spasms of his throat. He choked, heaving forward further, and Euron persisted. His eyes watered, thick spit gathered in the back of his throat and stifled even the short breaths he'd grappled for before. Wetness coated his mouth and tears streaked down his cheeks, but his distress seemed to incite his uncle further. Euron pushed on, snapping his hips upward brutally until, with a heavy grunt, he finally spilled down the back of Theon's throat.

He gagged, drawing back when Euron released his hair and, forgetting himself for a moment, moved to wipe his mouth clean. Euron struck him hard in the ribs with the toe of his boot with a harsh "Remember yourself, _Dog_."

Theon stilled his movements and dropped his hand back to the floor, curling his fingers against the stone as he sat back on his heels again. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Euron gather himself back together. He laced up again and smoothed his shirt down without so much as a glance towards Theon until he finished.

"I suppose you can be good for something," he sneered, strumming his fingers on the arm of the throne again, nails clicking against the stone. Theon had the feeling that Euron hadn't needed to use his mouth for whatever decision he'd already made, but it might have bought him some momentary pity. "But I can't just have you wandering around here like some stray mongrel. Even the mangiest bitches can be taught to obey."

Theon felt the heat of embarrassment creep up to his cheeks again and he did his best to lower himself in supplication. But Euron paid him little heed, reaching down next to the Seastone Chair and bringing back with him a length of heavy chain. Theon's gaze flicked upward momentarily as he heard the clattering of metal, only to avert his eyes abruptly back to the floor on seeing what his uncle produced. He heard the click of a lock coming undone and then Euron leaned forward, sliding the chain around Theon's neck and fastening it in place. The lock hung heavy against his sternum, but the weight of the chain itself was most noticeable. Not even as a prisoner had he felt anything so heavy, and so bitterly cold.

Euron wrapped a portion of the chain around his hand and give it a tug to the side. Theon responded immediately, clamoring to the side as Euron led him to sit next to the throne. He tucked his legs under him and to the side, leaning his body against the stone next to him when Euron dropped the chain to the floor again. The other end was attached to the floor with a metal loop sunk into the stone itself. He'd never noticed it before but it looked as if it had always been there. Perhaps the old kings of the Iron Islands used to keep their prisoners here as well...

He didn't have long to think on it before Euron's hand fell to his hair again, petting him and curling his hair around long fingers. He glanced up long enough to see a smirk manifest on Euron's face, his shoulders back against the throne in the closest embodiment of regal that Theon had ever seen in another man. His fingers slid slowly through brittle white hair and Euron cleared his throat gently.

"I'm ready to take council now," he called out, and the doors at the end of the hall eased open.


End file.
